


now i'm following you out to the coast

by carrythesky



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Love Letters, Road Trips, a fix-it of sorts for Frank's post-s1 road trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 11:03:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19130731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrythesky/pseuds/carrythesky
Summary: Just keep going. Wide sky, wide enough to swallow him whole.Just keep going.So he does.





	now i'm following you out to the coast

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr prompt-fill: kastle + petrichor/scrosciare (the pleasant smell that accompanies the first rain after a long period of dry weather/the action of rain pouring down). it's been up on tumblr for a bit, but i thought i'd transfer it over here, too. :)
> 
> title from "missed connection" by the head and the heart

It takes some time. All he can do is drive, at first, miles sliding past and the thin line of horizon just above the dash. The land here stretches flat like an open palm. _Just keep going._ Wide sky, wide enough to swallow him whole. _Just keep going._

 

So he does.

 

.

 

The Midwest is a scorch-oven. His engine overheats halfway through bumfuck nowhere, Illinois, and he spends the better part of an hour on the side of the highway, waiting for it to air out. Even out of the sun, the heat clings to his skin like wet paper. When he squints up at the sky it’s nothing but blue.

 

 _Looks like this heat wave might roll into next week!_ the lady on the radio chirps after he’s back on the interstate. Frank snorts and scrubs at his forehead, at the sweat slicked there.

 

He grabs a water and pack of gum at the next gas station. “And this, too,” he tells the cashier, swiping a postcard from the stand near the checkout counter. There’s a river in the picture on the front—nothing special, but he feels calm, looking at it. He’s sweating through his shirt even in the few seconds it takes to walk to his car, and imagines sinking his feet into that cold river water, all the way to his ankles. He imagines leaning back on his elbows and shuttering his eyes, light warm on his skin and his toes slowly going numb.

 

Frank stares at the card a beat longer, then carefully slips it into the glove box with all the others.

 

.

 

Written on the back, later— _Thinking of you. I’m always thinking of you._

 

.

 

(He buys the first one in Ohio. _Franklin Park Conservatory and Botanical Gardens_ , the script reads, against a backdrop of white roses.

 

 _You were right_ , he scrawls furiously as soon as he’s back in the car. _I’m lonely. I told myself I wanted that, but I knew it was bullshit. You’re the first person who saw that. You saw right through that shit._ A pause, pen hovering—

 

_I miss you._

 

.

 

He doesn’t send it. He doesn’t send any of them.)

 

.

 

Kansas is all dirt and dust and the road streaking ahead, cracked like shattered ceramic. The air conditioner busts just after he crosses the state line, so he drives with all four windows down, wind in his hair and ears.

 

He watches the sunset from the hood of the car, hoodie pulled up over his head as the sun melts behind the hills in the distance. It’s still warm, so he sits outside until it’s just him and the stars and the ache in his neck, from craning to look at them.

 

_Just keep going, Frank._

 

.

 

Scribbled on the back of a Greetings from Colorful Colorado card: _You told me you wanted me to have an after. I don’t know what that’s supposed to look like. I don’t know how to live without the war. There’s some part of me still buried in the desert, and that’s something I have to come to terms with. That’s a part of myself I’m never getting back. I’m scared as hell. I’m scared_.

 

.

 

The heat follows him west. He takes a two-day detour in Salt Lake, pays for a hotel room just to get out of the swelter. There’s a pad of paper on the bedside table, and he flips his pen between his fingers absently as he watches the news, cranking the volume so he can hear over the whir of the swamp cooler.

 

He’s never written her name. It’s easier, that way, to pretend he could be writing to anyone, or maybe just to himself. It’s easier than admitting the truth. _I’m not sure I know how to love anymore_ , he scratches out in jagged cursive, because this isn’t him, these aren’t his words. _But with you, I could try._

 

(He dreams of rain that night, around him and sluicing up from his pores, his veins, tracking across the lines of his palms. It runs red, no matter how hard he scrubs. Red, always. There’s too much—)

 

.

 

Frank keeps driving until he hits ocean. It’s the middle of the day, but the beach is brim-full with people, college students playing hooky and kids screeching away from the shoreline as the surf rushes in. He closes his eyes, and for a moment he’s just—here, breath in his lungs and the press of sunlight behind his eyelids. A small, splintering moment of peace.

 

Laughter peals up the beach and he’s jolted back, swaying slightly on his feet. There’s a row of tourist stands at the edge of the parking lot, food vendors and people selling keychains and t-shirts—he grabs a plate of Korean barbecue and eats halfway down the beach, toes buried in the sand.

 

The vendors are closing up when he doubles back for a postcard. He picks the simplest one, just a picture of the Pacific beneath a cloudless sky. A blank canvas, the kind of place for starting over.

 

It’s a short drive to the nearest mailbox. He sits for a minute, leg bouncing so fast his calf starts to burn.

 

 _Karen Page,_ reads the first address line.

 

He drags a thumb across her name, then pushes the card carefully through the slot and drives away.

 

.

 

Printed in slow, deliberate script on the back: _Taking your advice. Hope you’re well._

 

.

 

He wakes up to rain, the heavy staccato of it against the roof of the car. It’s a few minutes before he can bring himself to move, blink the sleep from his eyes — when he licks his lips, he can taste it on the air, the smell of earth and things being washed clean.

 

Frank rolls himself up and crawls into the driver’s seat. The rain is streaking in diagonals down the window, and he presses his fingers to the cold glass before letting his hand fall to crank the window down. The smell and sound hits him all at once, spray misting against his face, and he stretches his hand out into the rain, palm up, an offering. _Here I am. Here I am._

 

He holds out his hand. The water runs clean.

**Author's Note:**

> short and sweet, but i really liked the idea of frank working through his loneliness and feelings on the road. also the idea of him writing unsent postcards to karen, because ANGST. 
> 
> i'm on [tumblr!](https://carry-the-sky.tumblr.com/) feel free to come say hi :)


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